


Beam of Warmest Sun

by TheLynx



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: 100 Themes Challenge, Angst, Asexual Character, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-18
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-03-31 01:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 8,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3960067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLynx/pseuds/TheLynx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glimpses into the lives of Inquisitor Yavven Lavellan and Solas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> 100 themes list comes from [here](http://ribonsnlace.deviantart.com/journal/100-Theme-Fanfiction-Challenge-229521749).
> 
> Chapters are not chronological. Takes place in a timeline separate from my other fics.

"I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you for helping me, have I?”

Yavven and Solas sat in the older elf’s shack in Haven, door and windows shut closed against the frigid air and snow outside. A snowstorm was raging outside the wooden walls, hindering the Inquisition’s early efforts at growth; there was little they could do at the moment but talk.

The two of them had been having their first full conversation when the winds had begun to pick up, and within short order had made their way into Solas’ little home. Still chilly, but there were numerous blankets and furs, and both could easily conjure up heat with their own magic should the hearth they huddled around prove inadequate.

“I was only doing my duty, but I appreciate the thanks nonetheless. And so long as you possess the ability to seal the Breach, I intend to continue to aid you. Cassandra offered me little choice in the matter to begin with, but I am glad that you are not as… _abrasive_ a person as you could have been.”

Yavven lifted an eyebrow, warming his hands around a mug of tea (which Solas had served him while neglecting to pour himself a cup). “You thought I might be ‘abrasive’? And here I was, thinking I had a charming face.” He flashed a smile, humor in his tone.

Though he wore the markings of Sylaise on his skin, they were framed and interrupted by numerous deep scars. Some were clearly from a blade; others from nasty burns. A few had origins that Solas couldn’t quite discern. It was obvious that the man had been through quite a lot before the Conclave, and no matter how friendly his smile was, he had a visage that would intimidate most people.

Solas’ own smile was thin but not humorless. “I never said you or your appearance were lacking in charm. My dealings with your people in the past have been a bit rough, and I was worried that problems may arise between us. Whether or not the future proves us to be friends or distant acquaintances, however, our start has been a pleasant one.”

“So _that_ was the problem. I’m Dalish.”

“This is perhaps not the best topic to discuss during a snowstorm,” Solas pointed out. “We will have disagreements, but I would not want the esteemed Herald of Andraste to freeze his ears off on account of a poor conversation with me.”

Yavven rolled his eyes with a grimace. “Very well, but you could at least call me by my name instead of that awful title.”

“Regardless of your rejection of the title, posturing is necessary, _Herald_.” He grinned. “But as you wish. I will call you Lavellan from now on, then.”

“Yavven. My name is Yavven.” The younger mage took a sip from his mug. “You just go by Solas?”

“Some may think it odd, but yes. I have no other name.”

“It is good to meet you, Solas.”

“And you, Yavven.”


	2. Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this disgustingly syrupy chapter.

Solas slept soundly in the Inquisitor’s bed, curled up comfortably under the heavy sheets as he wandered the Fade on his own. Yavven sat on the sheets next to him, reading a book by candlelight. Aside from the wind and a few stray shouts and cheers from the keep’s courtyard, the only sounds to be heard were that of their breathing and the book’s pages being turned.

He smiled softly as he turned his head to watch the other elf in peaceful rest. A few months ago, all he’d known about this man was that he was an apostate with an affinity for the Fade; now it felt like there were hardly any secrets between them.

It was easy for him to say he had fallen in love. Not for the first time, but he hoped and prayed that this would end better than previous encounters. As much as Dorian playfully insisted that Solas was simple and therefore dull, Yavven could see so much more in him and was, frankly, enchanted; the man pulled at his heartstrings like a cat tangled yarn around itself.

He could tell it wasn’t quite the same for Solas. While he didn’t know his history, there was something pulling him back from loving Yavven as openly and fiercely as Yavven loved him. Was it fear of the Inquisition’s failure and death? Had he been hurt by another lover before now? Did he come from a place where relations between two men were scorned?

Maybe it was simply a quirk of his and he should stop wondering.

“You’re thinking too hard.” Solas squinted his eyes open, a gentle smile on his face. “It is rather difficult to stay asleep with somebody boring holes into one’s skull.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I found it difficult to focus with such an amazing man beside me?”

Solas laughed lightly, turning a little bit so the pillow wouldn’t muffle his words. “Yes, if only because I must admit to having the same problem,” he teased. “Does something trouble you, vhenan?”

Yavven placed the book on the bedside table, shutting it without marking his place. He leaned over Solas, lips meeting his to share a long, tender kiss. There was no passion behind it, but Yavven hoped he was able to communicate his feelings well enough.

They parted with sighs, Yavven’s face remaining close enough to Solas’ that their noses nearly touched. “Ma’arlath, Solas,” he murmured, “ma sa’lath, ma sulahn’nehn, ma vhenan’ara.”

Solas leaned up for another kiss. “I have never held that in question, and you know that I return the feelings just as strongly.”

Yavven pushed himself back again, putting some distance between the two so that he could properly situate himself beneath the covers. A wave of his hand and a hint of frost magic doused the candle, and then he snuggled up close to his lover, face nestled in his neck.

“I know,” he said, and the two drifted off to sleep together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvish: "I love you, Solas. My one love, my joy, my heart's desire."


	3. Light

“Tell me something, ma lath,” Solas said, slicing a knife roughly through a hunk of bread. “What do you make of your mark?”

The other elf leaned back against the tree behind him, filling his own sandwich with dried meat. “What about it?” he asked. “It’s elven in origin, and it can do interesting things with the Fade. Ultimately, we know little about it. I would assume that you might understand it better than I do, though, considering your field of study.”

“I do not have the experience of actually having the mark,” he pointed out, emphasizing the words by briefly pointing the knife at Yavven, “but that was not really what I intended to ask. I meant your feelings on it."

Yavven let out a sigh, holding his sandwich in one hand and using his teeth to pull off the glove on his left, letting the faint green glow of the anchor out. The magic around it danced, neither formless light nor solid, crackling almost as if with lightning. His eyes lingered on it, and Solas’ gaze was drawn to it as well.

“It’s useful,” he admitted, “and fascinating. It’s not every day you learn about long-forgotten magics, after all.”

“I can’t fault you for not liking it.” As always, Solas saw right through him, cutting straight to the important topic.

“I would like it a lot more if it weren’t on me. It doesn’t always hurt, but the feeling can get unbearable at times. But this whole… The responsibility of it all, and the uncertainty. I mean, we fell into the _Fade_. On _accident_. The very same Beyond that the gods came from.”

His good mood from earlier in their picnic was completely gone by now. “I don’t want this mark, Solas,” he whispered. “I don’t want to return there. I don’t want demons following me for the rest of my life. They will because I’m a mage—and now I’m just easier to find.”

“You can find a way to cope. It will be difficult, but all of our journeys have times like this where the way forward seems filled with terror.” Solas had placed his food on the blanket beneath them, and took Yavven’s from his hand as well so that it wouldn’t fall apart, laying it next to his own. He reached up a hand to stroke the other man’s face, fingers gently tracing the scars there. “Can you truly tell me you’ve never felt like this before?”

He had, and Solas knew he had; being sold to the Imperium did that to people. “After all of this is done, I want it gone,” Yavven croaked out. Tears pricked at his eyes, held in check by the closeness of the other man. “Whether by magic, or if I have to remove the hand myself, I want it gone eventually. I don’t want to be tainted by it forever.”

“There are no guarantees in life, vhenan, but I can promise to help you find a way.”


	4. Dark

Darkness, he supposed, was nice.

He might wake in the middle of the night, haunted by nightmares, ready to jump at shadows for fear that they were demons, afraid that something might reach at and grab him—but then he would feel a soft hand on his arm, lips on his cheek and gentle words in his ear. He would be pulled back under the covers, face cradled against Solas’ chest as he would whisper stories of the Fade or share poetry he had read.

_“Stay with me, Yavven.”_

At some point, Solas had started humming songs to him, some from their peoples and some unknown to him. Sometimes he would recite prayers to the elven gods. It meant little to Solas, but everything to Yavven. When he had been away from his clan, stolen away and sold to vicious Tevinter, religion had been all he could cling to some days to ground himself and keep his mind stable, and he needed it now.

They enjoyed the daytime as well, but some of their most tender moments together came when only the stars were out to illuminate their world. They would sleep together, traveling the Fade, Solas showing him the wonders he saw every day. Sometimes they talked about people (or spirits, in Solas’ case) they had known before they had met; other times they jested in front of the fire, curled up in blankets next to each other. All the magic in the world seemed to pale in comparison to those too-few moments they would spend together, an existence so set apart from the Inquisition that they could pretend, if only for a night, that it never existed.

_“Yavven! Stay with us!”_

He wondered what would happen once all this was over. Would they stay with the Inquisition? Well, Yavven had to, as Inquisitor, but he would have time to travel. He wouldn’t force Solas to stay if he didn’t want to, but he hoped the man would. Maybe they could reform it, separate from the Chantry, help fix the world like they were already doing. Long-distance probably wouldn’t suit either of them.

How many more nights would they share, traveling the Fade and gossiping by starlight? If his luck held, years of such nights might follow—and, even luckier, they might not be interrupted by nightmares.

_“Is he still breathing?”_

A fist on his chest, a spark of magic, and his eyes flew open, consciousness returning fully. Solas, covered in blood, smiled tiredly, a smile he returned weakly. Yavven kept his eyes half-open to watch the other man work, thoughts torn from his mind as feeling returned and pain gripped him. He lacked the energy to cry out, shivering as waves of healing magic washed over him to combat the pain of fresh wounds, the air filled with the tang of lyrium and blood.

Yavven tried to speak, but was stopped by a finger on his lips.

“Hush, vhenan. Save your strength—your body needs it to heal.”


	5. Seeking Solace

“Inquisitor, may I have a word with you?”

Yavven looked up from the war table, cloth map covered in pins and figures to mark requests, rifts, and troop locations. Letters and reports sat stacked on one corner of the map, and it was these he was working through, alone in the room as he was. He had already familiarized himself well with the markers on the map.

“Always. Is this regarding the Inquisition,” he asked, indicating the table with one hand, “or…?”

“A private conversation, preferably not so near to reminders of daily war and death.”

Yavven nodded, replacing a letter on the table and walking over to Solas’ position, taking the bald elf’s hand in his own. “How about the gardens?” They would be almost empty at this time in the evening.

Solas shook his head. “The fresh air would be welcome, but I would rather not be around people for the time being.” His lip curled down in faint disgust. “Just you.”

They passed by Josephine, who gave a polite nod before returning to their work, and soon found themselves inside the Inquisitor’s quarters, where Yavven opened the doors to the balcony and gestured with his head to the sofa. “Tea?”

“No, not tonight.” His voice was gentler than usual.

“Chocolate?” he offered.

“Chocolate?” came the confused response.

“Josephine had some drinking chocolate brought in from Antiva. It’s interesting, and different—I’ve made it before, but never had it until recently—but you might like it.”

“Very well then,” Solas acquiesced. “I try not to partake in certain luxuries, but I will try this one.”

Yavven gave him a smile, then set to preparing the chocolate. It took little time to make, since he could heat water quicker than usual with his magic, and after a few minutes of silence he sat down next to Solas, shoulders touching, hot mugs in both their hands warding against the chill.

“What did you need to talk about?”

Solas sighed, taking a tentative sip of the drink. “I find myself uncertain of where to go from here.”

“And where is ‘here,’ exactly?”

“My friend is dead,” he said numbly. “A spirit of wisdom, corrupted and killed. She is not truly gone, but… she will never be the same again.”

“You’re grieving,” Yavven realized.

“The loss pulls at my heart more than I could have imagined. I have felt loss before, but that was long ago. I came to you because you have experienced such a thing before, and because…” He trailed off, unsure how much would be appropriate or even accepted. “I thought you might be able to help.”

Yavven kept his mug in one hand, wrapping his other arm around Solas. “I will remain here for you,” he promised. “I can’t fix this, but I will help you in any way I can.”

Solas let out a light chuckle, contrasting with his damp eyes. “Starting with chocolate and sweet words?”

“It’s better than nothing, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is.”


	6. Break Away

Yavven took one last look at Skyhold, gazing across the bridge from atop his hart.

It had been a home of sorts. He had a family there, odd and mismatched as it was, driven together by fear and necessity yet glued together with the bonds that had developed. The Inquisition had been practically his entire life for almost a decade now. He’d had no reason to return to the Free Marches, not after his clan had been wiped out, and had few ties outside of the Inquisition.

As friends began to drift off to continue their own lives, he had to wonder where his was going. Would he spend the rest of his life faking a smile as people called him “Herald,” leading an institution set up by the Chantry? How long could he remain the head of such an influential power, now that there was little reason, in the eyes of the public, for a Dalish elf to have the position?

The time had come for him to break away and make his own path, leaving Cassandra as Inquisitor before he left. He had nothing, now. No clan. No history of any merit. No family.

What sort of family could he have had with Solas, he wondered? A quiet life, wandering the material world and the Fade alike? One where they made their own adventures, as if the Inquisition had not given them enough for several lifetimes? Could they have adopted children, raised them and loved them as their own?

It didn’t matter now. He hadn’t tried to hunt down Solas, not really; the man was evasive as a Dalish, and Yavven did not want to hurt him. But despite their separation, he had taken Yavven’s heart and run off with it, leaving an aching hole in his chest.

He could still remember their first kiss, a heady experience in the Fade that had been just as real as their second kiss, shared on the balcony of the Inquisitor’s quarters. The soothing lilt of Solas’ voice whispering in his ear still made its way into his dreams at night, and he ached to feel that warm body beside him, to hug and caress and share with him. There was so much of his life that he wanted to show Solas, but he couldn’t do that anymore. The mage was gone, and Yavven hadn’t heard a word from him in six years.

A miserably long time to hold onto their love, but Yavven never did things in halves. He had no regrets, either—he would suffer the heartbreak a thousand times over just to see that man’s loving smile.

“You alright?” Varric asked from beside him, astride his own horse. He was finally returning to Kirkwall for good this time, having made no more than brief trips over the years. It was as good enough a spot as any for Yavven to move on with his life, create yet one more new start.

“Yeah,” he replied, throat clenching. “Let’s go.”


	7. Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence, death.

“Solas,” Yavven began, gripping the other man’s shoulder. “We shouldn’t be here.”

They walked among sparse trees, a warm wind sifting through the branches and the orange light of evening dappled on the ground. The area wasn’t immediately recognizable, but Yavven could see certain marks on the trees and bushes around him, signs left for his clan’s hunters.

“This is a memory of yours, isn’t it?” Solas asked. “We’re in the Free Marches, correct?”

Yavven nodded. “My clan’s been here most of my life, but…” He couldn’t quite voice it. Something was off with the environment. Not a problem with the Fade or demons, but the dream itself. “I’m not sure this memory is a good one.”

“We all have difficult memories,” Solas said softly, taking Yavven’s hand in his. “Sometimes it is better to face them than let them sit untouched and ignored.”

They heard sounds up ahead, distorted whispers of a conversation lost to time, and entered the clearing before them. Two men, two red-headed siblings, a teen with ruffled hair, and a younger Yavven sat on a blanket, a basket of food between them which they shared in a picnic. They laughed when the teen said something with a frustrated face, one of the men leaning over to muss up their hair with his hand.

Yavven gasped, putting a hand over his mouth.

“Your family?” Solas asked. He knew little of them except that most had died.

“Yes,” he choked out. “That’s… those are my fathers. And my sibling, Cyrnarel, they’ve got the brown hair.” Even as his body shook, he let a fragile smile onto his face. “They always were a little troublemaker.”

Solas hugged him from behind. “I am sorry for what happened to them.”

“I’d gotten my vallaslin a few years prior. The red-haired woman there—she’s a hunter in my clan. Ellana. She’d just gotten hers that week. Her brother’s Mahanon. He’s a mage.”

The pleasant scene was abruptly interrupted as an arrow hit one of the men in his chest. Shock covered the faces of the other elves as humans strode into the clearing, weapons brandished. Flames and frost were conjured to Mahanon and Yavven’s hands respectively, ready to fight back, and Ellana drew her bow as Yavven’s other father had his throat slit.

Yavven removed Solas’ arms from his waist and turned, pulling the man back into the forest. “We’re leaving.”

Within minutes they had reached a small lake, cheery fennecs running around it happily. Solas recognized this place: The Hinterlands, near the Crossroads.

Yavven sat down on the shore, crossing his legs and staring into the water. “Ellana survived,” he murmured. “She had the sense to run.”

Solas joined him, rubbing circles on his back. “Is that when you were taken away? To Tevinter?”

“Yeah. Mother thought I was dead too, until I returned.” He couldn’t hold back a sob. “Cyrn and Mahanon never even got their vallaslin.”

They stayed there in each other’s arms until the sun had set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify: Yavven had three parents.
> 
> Theme 11: Memory is linked to this theme.


	8. Innocence

It wasn’t until Solas’ heart was in Yavven’s hands that he realized the mistake he had made.

He hadn’t expected to fall in love. A temporary yet valuable exchange of emotions, certainly, with the inevitable separation that would eventually come leaving them sad yet reasonably sated. But this? A man with whom he would happily spend years, perhaps even decades with? Someone who he truly enjoyed to be with, a mage with as much interest in the Fade as himself, a man who loved life with an enthusiasm he should have lost long ago?

Yavven had charmed him more than any demon could ever hope to attempt, and separating from him would be one of the most difficult decisions in his life.

He had weighed the benefits of staying with this man, but his duty pulled him from it. Still a part of him whispered _Why can’t you bring him with you?_ How could he tell him the things he knew—about the gods, about vallaslin, about Solas himself—without breaking him? Either way, Yavven would end up hurt.

It frustrated him to be so unable to do anything. If he disappeared with the Inquisitor, all of Thedas would hunt for them. If he told the Inquisitor about anything, he would follow Solas of his own accord, assuming he did not hate him. No, it was better to keep him in the dark, let him retain some of his people’s innocence. Then he might remain to lead his followers; he might be able to move on.

How would he possibly be able to move on when he knew he was loved by a god, after all? Not just the love he believed the Creators had for the world and their creations, but a truly special, intimate love just for him?

Solas still found himself doubting his own thoughts. There should be ways, surely, to stay with Yavven, hide the both of them away from the world as Solas performed his duties. Rejection wasn’t guaranteed—Yavven always had an open heart and mind, and was filled to the brim with patience when Solas expressed disagreement on Dalish history and beliefs.

But that would be irresponsible. The last thing he wanted to do was make things worse for his lover.

Perhaps he could show Yavven at least some of the truth. It might be met with hostility and the man might decide to leave him… Solas wanted to give him one last gift, however. It could break Yavven to learn that leaving Tevinter had not taken him as far from slavery as he had hoped, that his vallaslin tied him to it as a remnant of the dark past of his people, but Solas wanted to see him truly free. He didn’t deserve those marks on his face.

He could heal Yavven of them as a final gift before departing. The only things that belonged on his face were the scars he wore proudly and the smile he shared with the world.


	9. Drive

When Solas first met Yavven, he thought the man without motivation.

“Why were you at the Conclave in the first place?” he asked, pale healing magic knitting Yavven’s warm bronze skin back together again.

“My clan’s Keeper sent me, just to figure out the result.”

“Why a mage? There are few enough among your people. Did you offer to go?”

Yavven laughed at that. It was a nice sound, rich as small silver bells ringing in the air but not half as delicate. Solas realized a few months later that he was rather fond of hearing it, even in situations such as these where they were surrounded by death and fear. “I’ve had enough of shemlen for a lifetime, honestly. No, I was picked because I’m a mage and I’ve got experience being among humans. Being friendly with them, at least,” he amended. “And I stay because I can close rifts.”

The younger elf was following the path that had been laid before him. He followed; he was not a leader, and Solas questioned his position as his clan’s First. Not that Solas looked down on followers—everyone had their own paths in life—but he was almost disappointed to see this charming man being so _complacent_.

It took the Iron Bull’s keen eye to show him where he’d been wrong.

“You don’t want him to even be considered for Inquisitor,” the qunari rumbled to him over a drink in Haven’s tavern. “You think he’d falter, becoming a puppet or flailing about on the suggestions Cullen gives him.”

It was an apt observation. “He goes where the wind sends him. He can’t even control a battle—he leaves that to Cassandra or yourself. I would not see him leading an army.”

“He doesn’t have to.”

Solas blinked in confusion. “Then why suggest that he could?” That was what Bull was going for, wasn’t it?

Iron Bull leaned over the table. “Look, this Breach thing—if that’s all we need, some extra power to help close it, then everyone can go home and forget about all this. The Inquisition won’t have much use. But that’s not going to happen. We _will_ need an Inquisitor.”

“I fail to see your point.”

“What does Yavven want, more than anything, right now?”

The elf swirled his drink. “To help people.” A simple answer, but perhaps that was all there was to it.

“How can he help people when he’s taking on jobs he can’t handle? Leading in battle, deciding troop movements, meeting with nobles… He lacks the experience. What can he do without it?”

It hit him then, and he lost his breath with the realization. “He’s learning. Watching and learning, so that he can lead when the time comes.” It should have been so obvious.

“Right. So stop giving him that disappointed look of yours, because he doesn’t have any idea what he’s doing wrong by you and he’s really damn confused about it.”

He supposed he had an apology to give, then.


	10. Breathe Again

Bright bonfires dotted Haven and the surrounding land as celebration broke out. Rams crackled on spits and music reached towards the stars, mages and common folk alike dancing and drinking cheerfully. The town probably hadn’t had an event like this in decades, and it was the first time since the Conclave that they could all sit back and breathe again.

The Inquisition’s work wasn’t done and the hole remained in the sky, but they could count this as a victory.

“Not participating in the festivities?” came a familiar voice from behind Yavven as he watched from afar, sitting on a small ledge near the edge of town.

“I’m not a very festive person,” he said, facing the celebration and not his companion. “And though I’m sure he means well, I would rather not take up Bull on his offer of a drinking contest.”

“Wise decision,” Solas said, sitting beside him. He held a mug in his hand, which he promptly offered to Yavven. “Tea?”

“Tea at a party like this? Careful, some people might accuse me of being boring,” Yavven joked as he accepted the drink, warming his hands pleasantly.

“I seem to recall worse accusations against you, though I have it on good authority that you are not boring in the least, no matter what Sera and Iron Bull say,” Solas said, wearing one of his rare smiles.

Yavven sighed contentedly and returned the smile. “Thank you for being here, Solas.”

“I hardly had a choice in the matter, as you might recall.”

“Yet you remain, and have been a good friend. I could hardly ask for more.”

Solas frowned at that, hearing something in his tone. “You have asked for little, and I have provided. We may have our differences, but I would not withhold my aid from you. If there is more that you want from me, then ask it and we shall see.”

Hesitating, as he wasn’t quite sure how the other would react, Yavven held the mug in one hand and reached out the other to touch Solas’ wrist questioningly. Solas looked at him curiously, but relaxed his hand and moved it slightly closer to Yavven, who laced their fingers together with a grin.

“I may not stay with the Inquisition much longer,” Solas warned. He wasn’t entirely certain what Yavven meant with the intimate gesture, but didn’t want to lead him on in any case—even if he were to stay here, he would have to leave eventually. As it was, he intended to seek out the orb tonight, if possible.

“But you are here now, lethallin.” Eyes of molten gold met his, sharing a moment of openness and affection. “I enjoy your company and your stories. I enjoy _you_. Being around you and with you. Whether we remain friends for one more night or years, I would like to spend this time with you.”

Any response Solas could have come up with was cut off by the sharp ring of the warning bell.


	11. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow-up to Theme 7: Dream.

“About that memory of yours,” Solas started, broaching the subject carefully while he ran thin fingers through Yavven’s short hair. “I realized that I haven’t actually asked about your past.”

Yavven let out a long, slow breath, which he felt clearly on his bare chest, and then shifted his position to better see Solas’ face while lying down, already missing the fingers in his hair. This topic was bound to come up at some point.

It had been two weeks since they had last visited the Fade together, when Yavven had watched one of his old memories play out in front of him, showing them the violent deaths of his fathers, sibling, and friend. The Dalish elf had taken some time for himself, now properly able to go through the grieving process, finally having the time to mourn and once more having a clear image of their faces in his mind. Normally he would have sought out Solas for comfort, but he needed to go through this on his own.

Solas didn’t want him to isolate himself, so he was reaching out to him now—curled up comfortably together in a tent and preparing for sleep—to see if he was ready to return to the present. “I want to know about your friends and family. The things you have experienced, good and bad, that have made you the man you are today.”

“And yet you do not offer yours. You share the memories of spirits and the Beyond, but what of your own past?” Yavven’s tone was not accusatory, but his face was tight. He knew Solas was holding something from him. “Is your past as painful as mine?”

“Not in body, but perhaps in soul,” he mused. “I have not suffered as you have, but I have gone through much.”

“I would call you evasive, but that question was my fault, wasn’t it?” Yavven looked at the other elf, straight into his eyes. “Why do you hide, vhenan’ara? What could be so awful or so important that you hide everything from me?”

There it was. The pain in his voice cut straight through Solas’ chest and he forgot to breathe, stunned by his lover’s distress. “I cannot tell you,” he whispered, wholeheartedly wishing he could. “You deserve to know, you truly do, but I cannot show you that part of me.”

Yavven stared at him for a long while, silence sitting heavy and choking between them.

“I would not judge you any more than you have judged me.” A fair offer—he _would_ judge, as Solas had once judged him, and Solas would not have it any other way. “But I will not fully share myself with you while you still believe I won’t accept you.”

The statement stung like a slap in the face. He didn’t talk of sex—they had long since agreed to remain chaste—but the parts of his life that Solas longed to know about.

“I am sorry,” was all Solas could offer.


	12. Memory (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not linked to previous chapter, but rather another take on the Memory theme. (Replaced theme "ins*nity" due to the negative relation to certain mental illnesses.)

Once Solas left, all Yavven had of him were memories.

At first they were like jagged fragments of glass digging into his heart. He would walk through Solas’ rotunda, marveling at the paintings and waiting for the man himself to walk through one of the doors and start talking about the Fade. He would sit with Varric for cards or Cullen for chess, and Solas wouldn’t come to join in or watch. He would wake up from a dream, excited to share it with Solas, only to turn over in his bed and remember that they had separated—followed by the realization that he couldn’t even find Solas anywhere in the keep now to share as a friend, not a lover.

The distinction was too blurry now. They had never stopped loving each other, and Yavven always asked himself why the other had left.

The memories softened over time, becoming dimmer and tainted with Yavven’s own despair and anger until he could no longer remember Solas as he had once been. Had his ears been longer or wider than he recalled? His voice—did it always have that soft edge? He even doubted that his words had been as meaningful and truthful as he had once taken them to be. Had Yavven been too naïve to recognize that Solas was manipulating and using him from the start, just playing with him?

Doubts filled his mind. Cole tried to fix them, but there were too many unknowns to consider. Where had Solas gone? Why hadn’t he said goodbye? What was his link to that elven orb?

Had he ever really loved Yavven?

He still had the paintings in the rotunda, however long those would remain. They were something to remember Solas by. But they weren’t really him—they documented some events of the Inquisition. He had left some notes and books behind as well, some which made Yavven sigh or chuckle with just how _Solas_ they were… but they weren’t enough.

He hadn’t even given Yavven any gifts. Yavven had given him some Dalish trinkets that Solas tried not to sneer at and had eventually come to appreciate; none had been left behind when he had left.

Someday the memories would fade, and then Yavven would be left with only a hole in his heart. He was a man with enormous responsibilities and should do more than ache for someone who had decided to leave him in such a mysterious fashion, he told himself. He should be happy; he hadn’t even expected to live nearly as long as he had, now approaching forty.

It didn’t seem to matter. He couldn’t shake Solas from his head, shadows of memories taunting him when he slept at night. Multiple times Varric had suggested a change in scenery, maybe a trip to Kirkwall, to help change his focus. If he left like that, though, he wouldn’t come back to the Inquisition.

Some days he wished he had never met Solas. Those days hurt the worst.


	13. Misfortune

“Tell me again what brought us to the Mire?” Dorian asked, grimacing at the still waters as if they had personally offended him. He’d have to buy new boots after this, no doubt, and his socks felt little better for the experience.

“Is that a complaint I hear?” Solas asked, smirking. “Considering your field of study, I would have thought this to be an exciting outing for you.”

“There are better ways to encounter undead than wading through muck. I might even need a new staff; there’s no way the stench will fade after all this.”

“I thought you were eager to join the Inquisition? Here you are, doing Inquisition work, and now you’re simply bringing us all down.” He _tsk_ ed at Dorian. “One might begin to think you were little more than a pampered noble.”

“You haven’t been much better yourself,” Dorian pointed out.

“The spirits here are distressed. I simply feel pain for their suffering and wish to see them once more put to rest.”

“You always know how to brighten up a conversation, Chuckles,” Varric said with as much cheer as he could muster in such a place, which was admittedly not much.

“Does our dear Herald have any input in this conversation?” Dorian asked. “I don’t think I’ve heard him say anything for the past ten minutes. Almost as if he’s just letting us argue amongst ourselves for once.”

“…Yavven?” Solas asked, turning around slowly. There was no sign of the other elven mage anywhere.

“Shit,” Varric said, heading back the way they came. “I thought something felt weird.”

“He shouldn’t be far.”

Sure enough, they found him half a mile back, sitting on the ground and tending to his ankle with a few unmoving corpses some feet away. “Wondered when you’d come find me,” he said, tightening his bandages with a grimace.

“You’re bleeding,” Solas noted, kneeling down next to him and pouring some water from his waterskin on a small head wound to rinse it. “You shouldn’t be off wandering this place by yourself, lethallin.”

“I’d rather not be here at all,” Dorian said, but he was ignored.

“I had a thought,” Yavven started, hoping to explain himself adequately. “We felt some weird magic from one of the island things over there”—he waved a hand to indicate some land surrounded by water that was too shallow to really consider the spot an island—“so I came back and decided to freeze the water so I could walk across it without disturbing the corpses.”

“I take it you failed,” Varric said.

“Ah, yeah, I did.” He shook his head apologetically. “They came after me the moment my magic hit the water. Twisted my ankle, but it’s not broken.” He shoved the foot back in his boot and let Solas help him back to his feet.

“Say, Dorian, shouldn’t you be excited to be here? As a necromancer?” Yavven asked. He received a glare and looked helplessly at Solas, who only smiled at him.


	14. Smile

“I just don’t understand!” Yavven said frustratedly in elvish, substituting words in the trade tongue where necessary and throwing his arms in the air as he paced around the rotunda. “They all expect me, a Dalish elf of all people, to woo an Orlesian court? Gain their trust and increase the Inquisition’s influence while stopping an assassin?” He laughed dryly. “The nobles are going to come out of that wondering how the Inquisition hasn’t flopped yet.”

“You’ve been doing fine so far,” Solas said, marking notes as he stood hunched over his table. “What is it you said to Varric? You’re just bullshitting it all anyway? It’s been rather successful so far, I might say.” He sounded almost amused.

“Politics have never been my strong suit.” Yavven ran a hand through his hair, taking in a deep, shaky breath. “I prefer to let my advisors take care of things.”

“Yet you’ve been observing them and taking lessons, have you not? And you have already met with a number of nobles with favorable outcomes.”

Yavven shook his head. “This is different. You know that.” He bit his lower lip, watching the other elf poke at a faintly glowing stone. “Have you ever been in a court before?”

“In the Fade, yes. I’ve seen many memories that have taken place in courts over the centuries. It’s a truly magnificent environment.”  He looked up from his work, standing up straight with a hand still on the table. “I take it this will be something new for you? I have little worry that you will fit in well enough—you’re the Inquisitor. Dalish or no, mage or no, they will respect you. Outwardly, at least.”

“I’ve been to these events before,” he said softly, voice touched with bitterness. “Never as a guest, as you can probably assume.”

“I…”

“I don’t want your apologies, Solas.” He was facing away from the bald mage now, hands clasped behind his back as he admired the paintings on the wall. “Nor will my memories bother me, I think. But this is a rather large event, isn’t it? Nobles from all over Orlais will be there. Nobles who have connections in Tevinter. Maybe even some Tevinter nobles will find their way there.”

Solas walked up behind him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “You fear recognition?”

“I cannot put on a mask for those people, whether the Inquisition needs me to or not.”

“The Inquisition can only ask so much of you.”

“And yet it keeps on asking.”

He turned his head to Solas only to be surprised as the man claimed his lips in a soft, gentle kiss, eyes almost closed, and he couldn’t help but blush. The kiss was chaste and short, one of only a few they had shared so far. A smile pulled at his lips as they separated, and Solas smiled back at him.

“You’re not alone in this, Yavven. I’ll be there with you.”

Yavven pulled him into a hug. “Thank you.”


	15. Silence

_Why did I do this?_ Yavven asked himself. _With him, of all people?_

He should have known Solas would be cold and merciless, even with him. The man was vicious in every battle he fought, whether it was with magic or words, and now he was turning all of that on Yavven. He had the same ferocity that was present when he called upon lightning to fray an enemy’s nerves or upon ice to slow their steps.

It was rather interesting, the way he commanded the elements. More skilled with them than most apostates, yet his spells seemed weak, lending the illusion that he was a novice. No, his spells aimed more to hinder, not kill. Much like Yavven’s spells used to, when he was with his clan.

In the few short years he’d spent with a mercenary group before returning to his clan, he’d picked up a lot more offensive spells. He was glad for that now. He might not be able to survive the Inquisition otherwise.

Would definitely not have survived without the elven mage before him, staring at him silently.

Those harsh, gray eyes held his own unwaveringly, and Yavven worked hard not to flinch, mouth set in a flat line. That ferocity was, after all, part of the reason he’d been drawn to Solas. The passion that showed in his movements. The strength and dedication that his actions revealed.

 _Blackwall warned me._ Varric _warned me. But did I listen?_

“Is that all, then?” Solas asked quietly, breaking the silence with the hint of a smirk on his face. “I must admit I was expecting more.”

“Even my skill has limits, vhenan.” His voice was toneless. “But I was not expecting you to be so…”

“Clever?”

“Ruthless.”

The smirk grew. “Do you yield?”

Yavven frowned. He hated to admit defeat. Sure, it wasn’t life or death here—and Solas would think no lesser of him for it—but he was a stubborn one. On the other hand, he might just have to give in for once. They hadn’t even said a word to each other for the past hour until now.

“No,” he whispered, making up his mind. Determination rushed through him. “I won’t yield. Let’s continue.”

“Much as I admire your determination, Inquisitor,” came a cultured voice from above, “You’ve lost twelve games in a row.”

Yavven scowled up at Dorian, who was leaning on the railing to look down at the two elves with amusement clear on his face. They sat across from each other, cards scattered across the table between them, which had been cleared of Solas’ research materials for the evening. “And I am not about to give up.”

“Would you give up if I said Varric wanted to invite you two to a game of Wicked Grace?” The Tevinter received a disapproving glance from one of the other mages in the library for his yelling.

Yavven stared at Solas again, then scowled. “Next time,” he promised before standing. “Next time I’ll win.”


	16. Illusion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did somebody say ANGST and PAIN

A knock sounded on the door to Yavven’s quarters. He closed his eyes for a moment, preparing himself for the coming conversation.

“Come in,” he called out, standing from his desk.

Solas climbed the steps and stopped a few feet away from him, hands behind his back respectfully. “You wished to see me, Inquisitor?”

Yavven leaned back on his desk and crossed his arms over his chest. All the other times Solas had been in here, he’d been casual, comfortable. Eventually he had even stopped knocking. Now he was overly formal, and Yavven bit back the words he wanted to say. His chest ached, but that wasn’t what this was about, not this time. They could sort that out later.

“What are you hiding?” he asked. “Who are you?”

Solas turned his eyes downward. “I could say that I am hiding nothing, that I am only the Solas that you see before you.”

“We both know that’s bullshit.”

“I am sorry that I cannot tell you the truth.”

“Also bullshit.”

Solas shook his head sadly. “I wish that this could work out between us, I truly do, but—”

“This is not about our relationship.” His voice began to waver despite his attempts to control it. “You’ve made your decision. I don’t understand why you made it, and it’s not going to stop hurting, but I’m giving you time and distance. We can talk about that later. This is about you and the things you are hiding and who you are pretending to be.”

“With all due respect, Inquisitor, there are some things I cannot trust you with.”

“This isn’t about trust, Solas.” But that did hurt. All of this hurt and Yavven was beyond tired of hurting. “Nor is this about me. This is about the Inquisition. All of us. Varric, Cassandra, Bull, Dorian, Vivienne—you’ve been hiding things from all of us since the very beginning. You’re not helping us out of your own goodwill. You want that ancient elven orb, and Creators know why.” Solas couldn’t quite hide his flinch at that. He hadn’t been as subtle as he could have been, it seemed. “I’m not asking to know your whole life’s story. I want to know what you’re trying to use the Inquisition for. Is there more than the orb that you want? Why won’t you be honest with anyone? What are you trying to do, vhenan?”

Yavven forced his body to relax. “No, I’m sorry,” he amended quickly. “That ‘vhenan’ was out of line. I don’t intend to manipulate or guilt you.”

“And as I said,” Solas responded coolly, “I cannot give you the answers you seek.”

They stood silently for a few minutes, tension thick between them, before Yavven let out a heavy sigh.

“I don’t trust you, but you’ve been invaluable so far to the Inquisition.” His tone was flat again. “You can stay, do whatever you like. Just…”

“Yes, Inquisitor?”

Yavven swallowed. “Just remember to tell me goodbye when you decide to leave.”


	17. Blood

If there was anything Yavven couldn’t get out of his mind, it was the memory of blood.

The sickly, cloying scent he’d smelled the first time he set foot in the Hinterlands with the Inquisition had almost been enough to choke him, the smoke from fires seeming thin and weak in comparison. He’d stepped across puddles of it and still ended up with stains on his boots. He hadn’t been able to eat dinner that first day, too sickened by it to think about eating meat.

That wasn’t his first time encountering awful amounts of death, but the scale of it was unimaginable. Farmers slain by an errant sword or spell, templars rotting in their armor, mages facing the sky with terror on their slack faces…

Sometimes it hurt worse, when he thought of what mages here had to go through. Hidden away in towers, unable to see the sky or feel the grass beneath their feet, and bending to their captors’ will. They were fed the Chant and taught to hate themselves. And when they rebelled? When they wanted their freedom? Their bodies got piled up and burned.

The mage-templar war had since calmed, but Yavven never found it easy to return. Bloodstains remained on the walls of half-built shacks and half-broken towers. Most of the bodies had been collected and burned, but he found himself tripping over humanoid bones more often than he’d like. Green grass stood before him, yet he could see the red in his mind, sticky and drying on the fragile little blades.

“Do you still think them foolish?” Yavven asked at camp as Solas sat beside him. “The mages who gave their lives.”

“I think there are better ways to do things than throw oneself into the fire, yes.” He tilted his head, expression neutral as he searched Yavven’s face. “But you don’t.”

Yavven sighed. “They were never taught anything but compliance and fear. Comply and you get your books, a warm bed, and a meal; fail and you become Tranquil. How could you expect more from them than fighting however they could?”

“Their ignorance and inexperience do not make their actions any less foolish. The careless loss of life should be avoided when at all possible.”

“You don’t say the same when we fight the red templars.”

Solas smiled grimly. “Would that it were possible.”

“And it isn’t? We cannot reason with any of them, reduce the loss of life?”

“You would give Corypheus time to further grow his army.”

“As the mages, perhaps, gave the templars time to further receive aid from the Chantry to fight against them?” Yavven challenged. This was an unbearably sore topic between the two, even though they both shared a dislike of templars.

“They could have not started the war in the first place.”

“As if they had a choice!”

“Hey, elfytits!” Sera interrupted. “Some of us are trying to sleep here!”

Both of them sighed, exchanging a glance as they silently agreed to drop the topic.


End file.
